


Almost, Not Quite

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sam Winchester loves a good pun, Snitches get stitches, a little violence in the beginning, so that same can patch you up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Written from the below prompt (by the brilliant @404supernatural on Tumblr):How about a Sam x reader where the reader gets hurt really bad but Sam patches her up?





	Almost, Not Quite

All it takes is a second. It can be the difference between perfect and burnt toast. It’s the difference between being really funny or really not. A second is the difference between your machete taking off a vamp’s head or his fangs sinking into your neck.

Unfortunately, your timing is really off.

You’ve been hurt before but that doesn’t mean _this_ doesn’t sting like a bitch. It doesn’t mean you won’t scream. Of course, you scream because you’re only human for crying out loud and this dick just sunk his teeth into your neck then started sucking.

You’re still a hunter though so once you’ve finished yelling your skills kick in, even if you’re still lagging behind by that second.

You push him away and raise your leg to kick him squarely in the gut, but then you don’t dodge in time when his fist connects with your jaw.

Guess you’re just lucky that he’s already pissed off about his friends.

It goes like this for another minute, both of you landing a blow, knocking the other for six but then getting hit yourself. You can taste copper in your mouth except you’re, you know, not a bloodsucker so you spit it out to the floor. He’s already distracted by the blood that seeps down your neck and over your chest so it’s all finally starting to get to him. His eyes flick to the spot on the ground for just a second and thankfully, this time, a second is enough for you.

The door crashes open in time for both Winchesters to see you slice and dice, and then instantly sink to your knees. Your head feels like it might fall off your neck for how deep the gash is and for how many times your normally pretty face got hit.

“Shit,” you recognize Dean’s voice but it’s Sam who catches you before you crumble completely. Out of the corner of your heavy eyelids, you see him debating with something before he sweeps you up off of the floor.

In all honesty, this was not how you imagined getting ‘picked up’ by Sam.

There isn't energy left in you to resist or tell him you could walk. He knows that and it’s why he's carrying you in the first place.

When Baby is in sight the back door is yanked open and the trunk popped in record time. Someone tries their best to clean you up with limited tools before tying material around your neck.

“Nice, can I sleep yet?” Your head is foggy, jaw aching from having a fist cracked against it repeatedly.

Somewhere in the distance, they both frown down at you.

Sam is the voice of reason, as ever, “I don’t think you should sleep. How many hits did you take?”

You make an attempt at shrugging but as soon as you raise your shoulder even a little you let out an annoyed groan at how much it hurts, thereby stopping your attempts to be cool. “We both got some licks in.”

Their frowns get worse and, somehow, further away but they have priorities, so they tuck you in with your makeshift bandages and pour themselves into the front seat.

It takes five minutes for your eyes to close. Really that’s impressive stamina. The engine rumbles through your seat like motel magic fingers. You could have been asleep in seconds but for their sakes, you were polite and waited five minutes. It’s more than fair.

“Y/N!”

The word itself isn’t enough to startle you awake but the hand on your arm is.

You don’t bother arguing with him, there’s no point. Sam is good at arguing. You just peel open your eyes again and set them, as best you can, into a hard glare. Even that doesn’t last long because his expression turns from worry to relief that you’re listening to him. Damn Sam and his puppy dog eyes and his hair and that mouth that you’d quite like to…

“Y/N! Again? Seriously?”

This time you manage a tiny smirk as you open your eyelids again and notice that he doesn’t turn away this time. He keeps his face firm and his eye contact annoying. Why wouldn’t he just let you sleep?

For the rest of the journey back to the bunker all it takes is a flutter, or what he deems a ‘too long blink’ for him to nudge you again. The hour it takes is possibly the longest hour of your life.

Sam doesn’t carry you again this time, which is somehow disappointing, but he does wrap an arm around your waist and balance your body against his as you walk. Dean grumbles something about burning and vampires but it doesn’t concern you when Sam has his fingers on resting gently on your hip.

When you get to your room and you pass the mirror that hangs on your closet it’s only then that you see how beat up you are. The skin of your chest is now tainted red and the material at your neck is heavy with fresh blood. Your jaw already has the early signs of bruising, swollen, red skin that looks like it will bloom purple any second. And your mouth has crimson dried in the corners and staining your gums. None of that is considering the general grime of a hunt that covers you, sweat and dirt clumping in your hair and discoloring your arms.

All thoughts of Sam’s fingers being anywhere on your body for anything remotely romantic suddenly becoming impossible. Not when you look like this. He’s just looking after you.

As if reading your thoughts, he lays you down on your bed with practiced care and then he’s gone. Hands and all.

You use the minutes he’s collecting the first aid kit to try and smooth your hair, no matter how much your arms don’t want to go above your head, and wipe at your dirty skin. Without getting up it’s hard to tell but you suspect it didn’t do much good.

When Sam bundles back in with a bottle and arms laden with supplies you notice he won’t look at you. Considering he stared at you for almost a full hour on the way home now it’s weird that he won’t look at you. Before your mouth says something stupid you grab the bottle from him and swallow deeply. It doesn’t just burn your throat, but it stings in the inside of your mouth where earlier it was filled with blood. You guess at least those cuts are disinfected now.

His hands falter what he’s doing for only a second when you hiss and take another swig.

“I didn’t bring that for you to drink, you know?”

The smile you give him is small and slow, “ah, so that’s why it tastes like jet fuel?”

He answers by taking the bottle. He has an annoying habit of ending conversations with just that knowing look of his.

You sit relatively still until he starts using the alcohol for the purpose he intended. That’s when your fingers dig into the sheets underneath you and you unintentionally hold your breath. Sam never, ever orders you to breathe, he just works quicker. You can feel his fingers speed up, cleaning up the wound in the shortest possible time. He knows you’ll suck in a breath in between that and him stitching you up, which you do. Patching each other's injuries is a synchronized artform at this point.

It’s mostly silent work save for the occasional hiss that makes it past your lips. There is something different about Sam today though. Enough times doing this for each other makes it obvious. Normally his eyes aren't quite so heartbreakingly sad as he’s stitching your skin. Normally he's not looking at your injuries with abject sorrow in every twitch of his eyebrows. And once he’s done he’s supposed to do a lame joke. Always. Those are the rules.

When you’d needed to be mended after getting stabbed by a demon he’d told you he used cross stitches just in case. He’d hadn’t been able to stop himself grinning at his own joke and you’d laughed, more at his face than his attempt at a joke. It’s his way of breaking the ice when things get bad.

But now once the stitches are finished and bandaged he just starts gathering his things. A lump forms in your throat as you watch him about to leave the room. Unsure what you’d done to upset him but wanting to fix it anyway.

“Sam!” you call him with some urgency, stopping him at the door. His shoulders are tense, sinking a little when you say his name. “Thank you for patching me up. I didn’t- I didn’t know you were a gy-neck-ologist.”

He turns fast enough to make your heart stop with his hair falling into his face. His lips are puckered as if to hold something inside and you hum with nervous energy while you wait for his reaction.

In the next moment he laughs, it’s soft and light and he does it with his whole body. This time you're the one who broke the ice.

You shimmy a little and look up at him hopefully, “stay and watch something? You know, make sure I don’t have a concussion.”

“You made a pretty bad pun, I think you’ll be fine.” But he’s walking back towards you as he says it, first aid kit placed on your nightstand. He lays down and neither of you says anything when he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

He’s a long human being, he’s just making sure he stays on the bed.

You pull out your laptop and make quick work of opening Netflix, putting on something you’ve both seen before so neither of you needs to pay attention. You dare to lean your head, mindful of your neck, on his chest.

You’ve been in this position before after you've had a few drinks as an excuse, but right now you’re stone cold sober. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his arm around you tightens just a little and his chin settles on the top of your head.

It’s possible that you’ve never been more comfortable in your entire life.

A few times you drift but never for more than a few seconds. It seems a waste to sleep when you could be enjoying this quiet time with Sam. So, when your eyes close for the third time you’re awake enough still to feel it. His lips press a light kiss to the top of your head with a soft, low noise in his throat.

Something in your brain decides quickly that you’re not going to pretend to be asleep, instead you turn against his chest to look up at him. He doesn’t seem surprised or embarrassed, he just lets a sad smile sweep over his face.

“What’s wrong?” There seems to be a pretty good chance from the way he's looking at you that you are the problem, but you ask anyway.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he answers, his words drilling into your chest, “when I heard you scream tonight, I thought...”

He doesn’t need to say more than that. Sam always had the ability to say everything he needed to in a few words. His silence, his attempt to leave so quickly, the fact that there was no joke. It all makes sense now.

You lay a hand on his chest and sigh into him, not caring about the state you’re in. Your body is filled with warmth at the mere idea that Sam had been worried about you to that extent. If he's worried then he must care. If he cares then you have to reassure him, “not going anywhere today, promise.”

This time his lips meet your forehead, a quick kiss that makes your face flush. “Good,” passes his lips so quietly you’re not sure it happened.

"I promise next time I _almost_ die I'll give you a heads up."

You lay your head back down on his chest letting the smooth cotton of his shirt act as a pillow. You can hear his smile in his voice when he answers, "I'd appreciate that."


End file.
